Vegas Fly Trap
by tturnerr
Summary: A plot to poison, to frame, and, finally, to manifest destiny.


The two rangers atop the walls of Camp McCarran scanned the waning daylight that pulled its blanket away from the wastes laid down so many years ago. Gutierrez watched as the darkness invited, in the decrepit distances ahead from the base, the Fiend scourge from its deep basin of bloodthirst hidden in so many enclaves of rubble spread across the desert. He took in a breath of the incoming night's air and considered the serendipity of this mission, a sudden salvation to the unfateful addendum of his career as a soldier.

So much time spent idealizing about the coming end of his service while he had idled in the ranks of the New California Republic, whittling weeks down in the doldrums of Camp Golf, and finally an assignment, from, what he could tell, way up the chain; something _off_ the chain. A good old fashioned mission for him and another veteran ranger, Franco, prescribed by who knows who, it didn't matter; what mattered was the surge of motivation it gave Gutierrez, to suit up in that beautiful dark ensemble of the veteran ranger uniform, to look at himself in the shoddy Camp Golf creme-de-la-crap resort room mirror and see not just a soldier but a bona-fide _badass,_ "always have been, always will be" back into his attitude for the first time in ages. Setting out with Franco, maybe the most feared ghoul that was stationed at Golf, they had the audience of most every squad to witness them cross the long way over to McCarran. The feeling of admiring eyes, of evident respect steaming off the bodies of every rank in the settlement, put pride into his every step as they traversed.

When they arrived at McCarran, he couldn't help but smile behind the grey gas mask, shouldering his rifle with the confidence of a reborn warrior while the camp collectively dropped jaws at the arrival of two men, essentially, worthy of deification. The new recruits couldn't believe what they saw and rushed to salute, even as Gutierrez and Franco proceeded without haste nor trepidation to the on-site commanding officer waiting in the concourse center.

"Good to see you, Hsu," said Gutierrez, extending his hand to the colonel as did Franco.

"Been too long, Jimmy. Franco, likewise. Was the walk any trouble?" asked Hsu, squinting in the horrible beat-down of sunlight; Gutierrez guessed that these days he was an office officer more than a field general.

"Nothing we couldn't deal with," Franco replied. They'd disposed of a suspicious caravan group along the trip, with one precise shot from each of them flying from the hills and drilling through the heads of a duo of mercenaries guarding the pack, sending the grubby merchants and their brahmin cows fleeing the way they came from. It thrilled Gutierrez to shoot again.

"As expected. Let's get you set up inside and then we'll brief," Hsu said. They shifted toward the massive base building; for Gutierrez, short of a destination at the casinos of the New Vegas Strip, this place might as well have been the jackpot at the end of a rainbow.

"The meat of the assignment is gathering the Fiends. You've had your fair share of encounters with them but this is _not_ a showdown," Hsu said, sitting upright in his swivel chair while Franco and Gutierrez stared holes into his fatigues. He knew this wasn't going to sit well with two vets. "We need to set an example for their kind that if they submit, they may earn the mercy of the bear rather than the bite."

"Do we look like the mercy of the bear to you?" asked Franco. Without his helmet, you could see the revolting green tone of his dead skin in all its glory.

"When we get requested to do work, we don't do diplomacy," said Gutierrez. "We got called all the way out here just to put on a peace talk with the crazies? If you think we're getting anywhere with the Mojave's most wanted you're out of your mind." He seethed; NCR brass sure had some nerve commanding two vets to run a weakling's errand.

"I didn't say you couldn't give them a rough-up. That's up to you," conceded Hsu. "The assignment is to get a group of them into custody. But nobody dies. At least, nobody that agrees to submission. And don't say that you can't accomplish something with the Fiends; you've pulled off much more impressive things in your time."

Gutierrez couldn't believe this. They were supposed to spare the bulk of the barbarians, and on official orders nonetheless.

"Former 1st Recon snipers _don't do diplomacy_. Who put you up to this, Hsu? This can't be any kind of mission you came up with," said Gutierrez. "We used to run the claws through these bastards and now we have act like the desert's nanny? Why bring in me and Franco for this one? You can't get one of your _noble_ underlies to get the job done?"

"It's not about your rank. It's about trust, and more than that, it's about clearance." Hsu's face blushed out of some secret frustration; all Gutierrez could see was confirmation that this came down from even higher than he thought.

"Oh, some brass mumbo-jumbo then. This isn't even the tip of the iceberg then, is it?" he asked.

Hsu glanced at the doors of his office, wondering exactly how sound-proof they purportedly were. "It doesn't make me happy to administer this kind of mission, not to mention under these circumstances. If I had to go out there without knowing much more than you'll know, I would have my reservations too. But believe me on this, boys," grasping for that service camaraderie that had evaded him since he became a commander, "that this is the first domino that falls. This is the one that knocks everything else down."

"I'm not much for a metaphor, sir," replied Franco. "What the hell is at the end of the dominos anyway?"

Gutierrez knew Hsu was one part of the brains of the NCR's bear, and if they were gonna get any info about an endgame, they needed to get it now. "Yeah, _sir_. Where do the dominos go?"

Hsu sat silent for a moment. He wasn't usually swayed by emotion, but it was different when veterans were demanding he get to the bottom of it, and even more when they were beginning to insult him and his rank. He flipped his decision. "You're entrusted with this information solely because of your dedication to your positions and your experience." He was going to breach instructions but if it meant the mission would get done with further efficiency, so be it. He returned a glare to Franco and to Gutierrez, then began to tell them what was really going on: "We've waited long enough to take the land we need. Tonight, we wait no longer."

Music to Gutierrez' ears.

When they ventured out into Fiend territory at last, crouching and darting from cover to cover together like coyotes on prowl, Gutierrez knew this was a fitting return to his work. He was getting his kicks from the stealth, from having Franco by his side, from the onset of the "round-up" they were tasked to commit. This was like being young again, no matter the reasons of the mission; now that he knew where they were to go, he had that pride back, pulsing in his quiet steps on the hard desert floor.

They inched up toward a Fiend settlement established in the midst of a broken-down building. Franco tilted his rifle in between the crook of a cactus' arm as Gutierrez drifted from wall to wall; no matter how much talking down Hsu did, at least one of the Fiend heads was gonna roll.

The Fiends, clad in their ragtag hawkish armor, were gently prodding a prisoner with the ends of their spears, grinning, the joy of hard chemicals buzzing around in their brains. The prisoner shivered and cried out for help, to no avail, what with the dirty duct tape stretched over his mouth. One Fiend brought out his plasma rifle and took aim at the prisoner's legs. Hand on trigger, he howled out a laugh that provoked a chorus from the desert dementors.

Gutierrez, peering over through what once was a window opening, whipped his head over at Franco and gave a nod. A silent bullet sang its course through the cool air and nestled itself in the leader's shoulder for a split second before it ripped the arm from its socket. The rifle clanged on the ground as the leader slumped backwards.

Before the Fiends could frenzy, Gutierrez stepped out into the light of their fire, his gleaming revolver polished by the high moon. He shot not at them but at their weapons which leaned against nearby walls, setting the sparks of their malfunctions jumping and freezing the Fiends where they were; Franco's shots came in aid of this endeavor, and they looked in helplessness out into the darkness, unable to find the ranger's companion at his hidden post. Gutierrez felt a rush, that swell of adrenaline that hadn't come in so long, but he contained it and stood powerful so the Fiends would behold him. He spoke loudly once they paid frightened attention his way.

"I'm sure you know this already but any of you try to run, my partner can knock your legs off of you from a mile away. Just ask your amputee," as he pointed to the moaning leader running his fingers in his wound. "On any other visit, I'd have each one of you dead before you could blink but we're not fighting tonight. We have an offer that you better believe won't come again if you turn it down."

He haughtily approached the lot of them, taking a gander at the prisoner who begged for freedom with his exhausted eyes.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're part of them, and the same terms apply," said Gutierrez, to the prisoner's dismay. "The NCR is willing to extend its hand in peace, granted the group of you submits to its authority. There will be protection, food, and shelter," which piqued the interest of the downtrodden Fiends, some of whom had never had a home in their entire lives, "all provided that you prove yourselves in obedience. Simple as that."

He let this offer sit on their minds. They murmured amongst each other and looked at this dark figure, this reaper who sheathed his scythe.

"Unofficially, we can also offer to satisfy whatever chemical needs you might have," said Gutierrez, knowing this would be the hook to snag the sorry lot, each of them likely strung along by their addictions to various substances, "and there will be some financial gain to be made as well. If, of course, you can really show that you can serve the Republic. Otherwise, if you want to be wiped out, along with the rest of your pathetic tribes," he smirked, "we can get right to it when you say the word."

Hsu solemnly surveyed the line-up of the kneeling, tied up Fiends that filled the base's interrogation room, the eight of them haunted by the rangers that stood watch over them. He paced in front of them, eyeing the former prisoner with a special interest. He waited for someone.

That someone came. The figure, in a pristine white lab coat, cautiously entered the interrogation room with a frown that weighed down his mouth until his eyes cast upon the prisoner, the one he needed to see. He pulled out a syringe glowing with the ebullience of that happy chemical, Mentats, and tapped its needle, stepping toward the shaking subject.

"You're just the one for this job," he growled. "Hold still."


End file.
